Locks
by Deiter Ginsberg
Summary: Huey tries out a new hairstyle, and everyone has something smart to say about it... except for Caesar. Rated 'T' for Huey/Caesar slash. JUST GIVE IT A SHOT! I promise, it's one of the better Boondocks slashes out there. You won't be disappointed. REPOST
1. Chapter 1

**Locks  
Chapter 1**

"Dumbasses better not say _shit_ about this."

Huey grabbed another clump of mousy black hair, working it nimbly in his hands before laying it against the other rows of dreads. He glanced up from the edge of the bed. His reflection in the vanity almost made him snicker. Huey never giggled or laughed of course, but it was funny all the same.

The top part of his hair was all brown afro. The sides and back were all shoulder-length dreadlocks. It was a frohawk with dread accents - either a happenin' 1980's hairstyle or a _very_ bad stylist choice, depending on what era you lived in. Huey turned back around; looking at your work while you did it was supposed to mess it up. That's what the website said anyway.

As he neared the top, a gray face leered at him from the corner of his eye. Huey turned, still warping a clump into a long knotted strand. Marcus Garvey stared at him menacingly from his podium.

"Oh shut up." He muttered to the poster. "Don't give me any of that 'Back to Africa' naturalism bullshit. I'm the hardest working nigga in this place. A brotha' can change his hairstyle if he wants."

The last one was finished, dropping neatly in place across his face.

The reckoning.

Taking a deep breath, Huey braced himself for what was to be his greatest challenge yet. He gave the mirror another look. And gasped.

". . _.fuck_."

Something had gone terribly, _terribly_ wrong.

His mouth gaped open, watching the girl in the mirror mimic his expression.

It was too. . . _pretty_. Too even and meticulous. The examples on the site didn't look a_ damn_ thing like this. This wasn't the Rastafarian symbol of masculinity and strength. . . This was a damn J.C. Pennys advertisement!

A guttural moan escaped the little girl's mouth in the dimly lit and dust-stained old mirror.

All the features were there. The big forehead with lots of stress wrinkles. The too-thick eyebrows knitted together in a perpetual frown. The mean doe eyes. The lips pulled tight and featureless beneath an atypical black nose. But a neat, artistic pile of shoulder-length dreads now poured over his shoulders and down his back; a few errant strands hovering near his peripheral vision.

The features had all changed. The badass look it had taken him years to cultivate was gone somehow. The moody grimace now looked like pouting; the ethereal glow of blackness that made old ladies cross the street to get away from him now looked inviting. . . almost _warm_.

"Sweet hell. . . who the _fuck_ is going to take _this_ seriously?!"

Huey furiously fumbled with the locks, trying to adjust them into a more manly visage. Each one was more feminine than the last. He was cycling through the entire women's section of GanjaTokingRastaDreds dot com and not even remotely hitting on anything designated for someone with a penis.

A bad decision. A _very_ bad decision.

Rubbing his eyes in dismay, Huey Freeman donned the plain white kufi he had bought for the occasion, trying to cram as many braids as he could beneath its hood. He soon realized that Muslim headwear wasn't designed for storage and gave up, allowing the brown locks to tumble over his shoulders once again.

He looked in the mirror. He looked like a gypsy now. Negro Gypsy.

After a few more minutes of angry self-banter, he slipped into his steel-toed boots and grabbed his army jacket, flipping the lightswitch off and bracing his hand on the door. He stood in the darkness for a few moments, collecting his thoughts.

Sigh. _They_ were both going to be home.

He gave the girl in the mirror one last disdainful look. She scowled adorably. "Whatever. Let 'em talk shit. I haven't bloodied anyone in a few weeks. I'm overdue."

With that, Huey Freeman pulled open the door, his eyes adjusting to the bright light of the hallway.


	2. Chapter 2

**Locks**

**Chapter 2**

_". . .the attack occurred the day following President Bush's highly publicized visit to the war-torn country, during which he infuriated the general public by grabbing the Iraqi First Lady's left breast. The President is quoted as saying: "Hooo-WEEE. . . THEM SOME TIG OLD BITTIES!!" shortly before punching a peace activist in the face. In related news. . ."_

Down the stairs. Almost home free. The TV talked importantly to itself as Grandpa snoozed away in his big green Lazyboy. Huey's hand caught the cold door handle.

_". . .an estimated forty-thousand women, orphans, and small puppies were killed in the blast. . ."_

The door creaked. Grandpa was too cheap to spring for a thing of WD-40. Huey winced.

"Huh?? Wah? Whozzat? I got a gun."

"Nothin', Grandad. I'm heading out. I'll see you later." Huey tried to avoid the view from the living room.

"Hold on boy. Come in here."

_Sigh._ Huey shuffled in.

Robert Freeman's eyes went wide. "God DAMN, boy! What the _hell_ you do to your hair?!"

Before Huey could explain the intricacies of the 1970's black counterculture movement, Grandpa had bolted out of his chair, shoved past Huey, and had made it to the door at an amazing speed for his age, standing on the front porch in his bright-pink Speedo. "Riley," he managed between bursts of laughter. "Leave that damn bike alone for a second and get in here! Come see this!"

Someone cursed from beyond the door. A nappy head soon materialized at the doorstep, dressed in an orange mechanic's jumpsuit with grease on his arms and cheeks. Upon seeing Huey, Riley fell over onto the front lawn, howling with laughter.

Eyes and back straight, Huey stepped over his younger brother, trying to escape with dignity.

Riley sat up, clutching his sides. "You. . .oh my _god_. . . you (wheeze). . .you looks like a _bitch_!!"

With that, Huey paused in the cold winter air. His right eye twitched slightly.

_**CRACK!!**_

A roundhouse kick, high and impossibly fast, connected with the side of Riley's head. Riley went sailing up and over Grandpa Freeman, though the door, and slammed headfirst into the stairway banister. He laid crumpled in the entryway, unconscious.

Grandpa was still guffawing in the door, oblivious to the unconscious adolescent lying just behind him.

A white couple that had been walking their dog along the sidewalk across the street stopped and stared at the strange scene. They exchanged furtive whispers. Apparently, some little boy had been picking on his big sister who had, in turn, kung-fued him into next week. They couldn't understand why the old man thought it was so gosh darn funny though, or why on earth he was wearing a pink speedo in the middle of October.

Huey regained his composure, straightened up, and made his way across the lawn.

Smiling gleefully, Grandpa waved at the couple as they stared on. "Y'all be careful now! Nobody talks no jive to _Foxxy Brown_!!"

Without looking, Huey could tell Grandpa was pointing at him with the "Foxxy Brown" shot. The fat man in the pink speedo was still guffawing as Huey rounded the bend connecting Woodcrest to the main thoroughfare leading into town. Mother Nature sensing his mood, snow began to trickle down in white cottony sheets.

"And that's exactly why niggas ain't going nowhere." Shoving his hands into his coat pockets, Huey started the long walk down the slushy asphalt road, his breath pluming out in front of him in great puffs.

* * *

Michael Caesar stretched luxuriously in the bright morning sun that filtered through the window blinds. He gave an exaggerated screech when his shoulder muscles popped as he arched his arms overhead. The neon digits on his Mickey Mouse alarm clock read 1:24.

Okay. Not quite morning.

He groaned as he jerked back the layered blankets, standing up and giving another catlike stretch.

The layover flight from Brooklyn had taken way longer than the big-titted stewardess had guesstimated. He had had to change over in Wisconsin of all places - not to mention the six-hour jetlag he was going to be suffering from for the next week or so.

On the upside, it had given him the material for his weekly piece in the Free Huey World Report. Just why, exactly, had the colored kid gotten the seat immediately next to the whirling jet engine on the initial flight and _both_ layover flights? Was it an extreme coincidence? Some reoccurring glitch in the computer mainframe? Or, was it because if the engine exploded, it would just shred the nearby black kid and leave the white passengers with a higher chance of survival? Think about it, son.

Wiping the sleep from his eyes, Caesar surveyed the bedroom. Cool and the Gang staring blankly from the ceiling. Ranma 1/2 poster on the far wall. Pile of clothes. . . everywhere. And the duffel bag full of video games and used clothes he had been too tired to unpack last night. Everything just as he had left it. He gave himself a once-over in the mirror. That was the same as he had left it too. Same puffy cheeks. Same stubby dreads sticking up in every direction. Same big old nose, same droopy eyes, same goofy lips.

_Everything's probably still the same in Woodcrest_, Caesar remarked to himself. _This place could bore the piss out of a nun._

He gave a good-hearted chuckle. _But that's what I'm here for. I'm the party. I'm the divining rod to the cool and bitchin' in a desert of whitebread chalk monsters. They've been missing out on my awesomeness for nearly a month now._

Ruminating on this, he decided that it was high-time to start some shit.

The corners of his mouth curled in a mischievous grin. _I wonder what Fro Head's doing._


	3. Chapter 3

**Locks  
Chapter 3**

Halfway down the frost-coated bend, Huey's phone began to ring.

"_Beep beep. Beep beep. Beep beep. Beep beep."_

(Yeah, that's right: a Black man's phone that doesn't have a song for its ringtone. Suck it America.)

Huey fumbled around in his jacket for the little black Nokia 2300.

(And yeah, that's right – a Black man's phone that didn't cost hundreds of dollars. A Wal-Mart phone does the same damn thing as any other phone out there. Don't hate.)

His numb little hands rooted about through the tons of junk in his pockets. Mace. Nunchucks. Half roll of Tums. Chairman Mao's Little Red Book. _Phone._

The number didn't look familiar. Huey depressed the little green button. "Hel-oh?"

"BITCH, where's all my money!!"

The deep baritone caused Huey to jerk back, eardrum vibrating painfully.

"And. . . who the hell is this?" the youth said, a little louder to match the voice on the other end.

"Who da' fuck you think this is, _hoe_?! It's _Tirone_! Big Daddy, wondering just where the_ fuck _his bitch at."

Huey considered hanging up. Riley's friends. Had to be.

"Uuh. . . look. . . this is Huey Freeman. Riley probably gave you this number as a joke or something. I could give you his cell number—"

"And just who the fuck is _Riley_??" the baritone interrupted. "You two-timin' me, bitch? Got another pimp lined up, thinkin' you safe with another nigga? Let me find you. Just _let_ me find you. . . take that damn tire iron up the side of your head, maybe you remember who feeds yo' sorry—"

"You know what," Huey started, a tinge of anger rising in his voice. "This has been a lot of fun. Really has. I'm gonna be hanging up now."

The voice on the other end of the scratched old phone cracked slightly. "Wait wait wait. . . a'iight, a'iight. . . just let me ask you a question."

A car passed along the stopped boy and continued down the slick icy road. Huey tucked an errant dread behind his listening ear.

"Yeah. . . _what_??"

Huey thought he detected an audible grin coming from the other end of the line. The voice seemed to have changed dramatically, becoming higher pitched and donning a pronounced Brooklyn-area accent.

"You miss me, hoe?"

Huey recognized the voice immediately. And what happened next doesn't occur that often in public places.

Most people who know Huey Freeman will tell you that he never smiles. This is unwritten law for most people. But sometimes, in extreme conditions (and often when no one is around), the little corners of the revolutionary's mouth would turn up slightly. The atrophied muscles in his face gave an audible pop as they labored to produce one of the rarest feats on earth.

Huey Freeman was smiling.

And he hoped to god no one was watching.

"What the. . . when did you. . ." The disembodied voice snickered loudly over the receiver. "First of all, you're an ass. Second of all, when the hell did you get back?"

Michael Caesar was still laughing. It's not that often you could make someone like Huey disgruntled. "In that order: 'I know', and 'late last night'. I just got up."

The icy wind rustled Huey's long dreads. "I. . . well. . . I mean, how was Brooklyn?" The corners of his mouth weren't going down. He worried they were stuck.

"Bitchin'. Signed some autographs, kissed a few babies, did a few drive-bys, started another record label. . . just same ole' Hood."

"Does it look about the same?"

"Yeah. A little better, actually."

Despite the cold, Huey's cheeks were warming up. It was getting worse.

"So Brother Freeman, what's been going on in Woodcrest?"

"Just. . . same old, same old."

"Anything new?"

Huey caught a glimpse of a long wooly strand that had fallen between his eyes. He pushed it back. "Uuh. . . no. Not really. Same old, same old, you know."

There was an awkward silence. A cat meowed somewhere over the digital distance. Caesar's cat, Potroast.

After a while, Huey broke in. "So. . . what are you gonna do today?"

"Well. . . I'm kind of waiting for you to get your ass in gear and get over here. I got somethin' for us to do. It's going to be te-ziiight."

Huey shook his head, long dreads flowing with each movement. Turning on his heel, Huey stepped off towards the opposite direction, heading back into Timid Deer Lane. The accumulated snow now crunched under his feet.

"So you coming or what?"

"Yes nigga. . . give me, like, 15 minutes. I was heading for the mall when you called."

"A'iight. See you in 15."

Huey pulled the phone away, his finger finding the disconnect button. He heard a voice continue over the line and he rushed the phone back to his ear.

"Sorry. What did you say?"

"I said," Caesar enunciated clearly, as if speaking to a child, "you never answered my question."

Huey's brow arched. "And what question was that?"

Caesar sighed impatiently. "Whether or not you missed me, nigga!"

Huey nearly stumbled over his own boots. His face felt warm again. "I. . . well. . . yeah. Of course."

"Cool. Peace." The line went dead.

Huey paused for a moment in the slowly-falling snow. The dingy gray sky and fat white clouds overhead looked almost like something you'd find on a postcard.

His smile faded as he pocketed the 30-dollar phone. Stuffing his near-frostbitten hands in his pockets, he sighed and continued the hike up the slight incline leading towards Caesar's house. He was a little relieved. . . for a while there, he was worried that the muscles in his face had locked in place. They had gone down after he had hung up, thankfully.

And yet, for some reason, his cheeks still felt surprisingly warm.

* * *

Author's Note: Please read and review - positive and negative criticisms both welcome. Any spelling/grammatical errors, please let me know.


	4. Chapter 4

**Locks  
Chapter 4**

The Beam Sword went flying, pegging Donkey Kong squarely between his soulless ape eyes. The large brown primate went sailing off into the horizon with a garbled wail. He faded into little more than a speck on the far distance, disappearing completely as Pikachu let out his victory squeal.

Caesar sighed, sending the controller clattering to the carpeted floor. Donkey Kong always sucked.

Caesar had been playing Super Smash Bros. for nearly four years. He had the enemy difficulty ratcheted up as high as it would go, but after four years even that wasn't a challenge for him anymore. He could whoop the game's ass with Jigglypuff. _Handily_.

He switched the old console off. The game's fun-ness was long-since a thing of the past. It had been fun back when there had still been something new to learn about it. Back when he hadn't gotten the timings for each of the moves completely down and when there were still bosses in the game he hadn't beat. But by this point, the game was a casualty of it's inability to mature and evolve in tandem with its player. The game was frozen in time - static. Unchanging.

Caesar sighed. _Like this town._

He rubbed his balled-up sleeve over the frosted window, peering outside at the pristinely manicured lawns barely visible beneath the translucent icy sludge. Cookie-cutter houses. Trimmed, nondescript lawns. Everything so. . . _piss-boring_.

He sighed, looking back. He wasn't mad at the game. That wasn't it. He played it despite it's sameness He played it for nostalgia.

It was the town that was getting to him.

A town has people. People are supposed to have lives and ideas and passions and problems, and _that_. . all those circumstances and beefs and whatever. . . _that_ was supposed to make stuff exciting. The ability to evolve in new and exciting ways, as weeks turned into months and months into years. Everywhere changed.

_Except THIS place!! This place don't change for shit!_

Brooklyn changed, he knew. The buildings changed. The graffiti _on_ the buildings changed. The hookers changed, the hobos changed, and all of it was _interesting_. Despite the crime and grinding poverty, there was still a life there - a pulse to indicate that something human inhabited the worn-out brick buildings.

He found himself already reminiscing about his trip. He had played ball with his old crew, gone to his old school's autumn dance, gotten into a fight with a girl. The gunshots and crying babies that had lulled him to sleep for so many years had been his once again. The pimps in their gaudy and outrageous outfits, the local self-serve laundromat with all the hot chicas folding laundry and babbling in Spanish. There had even been new robberies.

But he was back here now. Woodcrest.

He slipped on his checkered vest and comical golfer's cap, tucking away his short frizzy hair. Ironed khakis, white long-sleeve formal shirt, vest and cap. He looked like a good church-going negro.

His reflection grabbed it's crotch and gave him the finger, mimicking every rap album cover ever. He smirked. _Still fly._

He was debating heading downstairs to see about a leftover pizza breakfast when his mother shouted for him from the stairs below.

"Michael. . . somebody's at the door. I'm not decent. Get it will you?"

Caesar grinned. _Fro Head._ The one person in this town whom Caesar secretly hoped would never change.

Throwing open his bedroom door, Caesar surfboard-slid down the oak balustrade at breakneck speed.

"Boy, I better not be hearing you sliding down that railing agai--" was all Caesar heard before he lost his footing. He went hurtling into the front door approaching Mach 2.

_SLAM!!_

". . . _boy_. . . if I find _one more dent _in that damn door, I'm going to tear your hide. Yo' black ass is _not_ Tony Hawk."

Caesar gurgled a response from where he lay crumpled on the floor. His left ankle was lodged behind his right earlobe. That couldn't be good.

The door knocked again.

"Boy, get the damn door!!"

Caesar popped his spine back into place as he righted himself, vertebrae crackling as he twisted the knob. He was checking his shoes for scuffs when the door opened, not immediately noticing the person waiting just beyond it.

"Hey C."

"Hew-EEEh. What's up my--" Caesar glanced up. The last part of his greeting squeaked out inaudibly.

Standing at his door against a backdrop of Icy Wonderland, in an off-white sweater and a worn pair of blue jeans, was one _very_ pretty Huey Freeman.

Nobody moved for a good minute. Caesar had paused mid-word, hand still frozen in the act of opening the door, his jaw hanging somewhere around his ankles.

Huey's brown eyes narrowed at him, his angelic face framed by a waterfall of dreadlocks. They meandered carelessly down his reddened cheeks and stopped at about mid-chest.

"So. . . I. . ." Caesar gulped audibly. "We've changed our hair I see."

She-Huey sighed. "Yeah, I _know_. I should have cut it _before_ I made them. Got it. Lesson learned. Can I, like, _come in_ or something? It's cold."

Michael Caesar shook his head, clearing his thoughts. "_YEAH_. . . yeah. Sorry, come in." He moved out of the way, shutting the door behind his friend.

Huey pulled off his water-soaked kufi, shaking out his locks onto the Berber carpet. He turned around to find Caesar still staring at him.

"Go ahead," Huey glowered. "Get it out of your system."

"What?"

"You _know_ what."

"No, I. . . I'm. . . I'm digging it. Really. Makes you look. . .uuh. . ." he fumbled frantically for the right word. ". . . spiffy."

_Spiffy?!_

Mistaking compliment for sarcasm, Huey shot Caesar the finger and wordlessly trudged up the stairs, holding the digit aloft as he went. Caesar stared up at the retreating figure as it disappeared into his bedroom. He blinked the dryness from his eyes, having apparently been staring the whole time.

_Well. . ._ he thought to himself._ Looks like some things DID change while I was gone._

_

* * *

_Author's Note: God this thing's a pain to go back through and correct. Spelling and grammar errors, PLEASE let me know. Read and review._  
_


	5. Chapter 5

**Locks  
Chapter 5**

For the first ten minutes or so, Huey could feel Caesar's eyes boring into him.

His stare felt like rays of sunlight on the side of Huey's face - hot and tingly. Huey was thoroughly whooping his friend at _Super Smash Bros._ - something that only ever happened when Caesar had something on his mind or when he was distracted. Huey glanced over just in time to catch Caesar gawking. Caesar jerked his head back towards the screen, an exaggerated look of concentration plastered across his face.

_Dammit. Is it really that big of a deal? _

But after about the fourth time dark-version Samus had gone flying off the acid bridge at the hands of a little red-hatted plumber, Caesar's pride kicked in and the fight became less slanted. Pretty soon, Huey's 5-2 lead had become 5-4, then 6-11, then. . . well, he lost count after that.

Huey's fingers were throbbing as he massaged his eyes. Caesar was literally an inch from his face.

"_What's REAL good wit' it, Niggah?_ Thought you _had_ me! Thought you _had this_! But I got all up in that ass, didn't I?"

Placing a hand against the boy's forehead, Huey shoved Caesar out of his personal space, sending him off the bed and onto the floor with a soft thud.

"Black Samus strikes again!" continued the triumphant jeer from somewhere to Huey's right.

"Nigga, shut up and load the next game before I beat you."

"You can't beat the heat, bitch."

Sigh. Caesar only ever lost his cool at video games. This one specifically.

"So did I miss out on a new Lauryn Hill CD just so I could listen to you run your mouth, or did you actually have something for us to do today?"

A nappy head rose above the mattress, golfer cap eschew. "First off, I _saved _you from that CD. It's called the Internet. Download illegally from it sometime. And second of all, yes. We're going to a party."

Huey's eyebrow arched. "Party?"

Caesar chuckled. "Yeah. Neighborhood party. Been looking forward to it since before I left. I was worried I wasn't gonna make it back in time."

"Whose house? Where?"

Caesar grabbed the other bulky gray controller, cutting off the console and switching on _Star Wars: Podracer_, loading two-player mode. He busied himself in the pod customization menu.

". . .Caesar!"

"What?"

"Don't 'what' me. You heard what I said. Whose house is it at?"

Caesar continued to concentrate at the screen. "Uuh. . . new joint. Some kid's throwing, like, an early Halloween party. Halloween's on a Monday this year, so he's throwing the party the Saturday before."

Huey grunted. He didn't really do parties. Wasn't his scene. Yet. . . he could tell Caesar was trying to avoid something.

"Okay. So where is it then."

Caesar's pod racer expelled a jet of flaming plasma, incinerating a nearby nondescript NPC.

"Uuuh. . . it's in the neighborhood. It'll be the house with all the noise."

"Caesar, if you don't want this gaudy controller down your throat, you'll tell me where it is."

"Alright alright! I don't remember exactly. . . I think it was, like. . .1103 Timid Beaver Lane. Or something."

Huey frowned. The address sounded strangely familiar. As his Anakin podracer crashed into a badly-pixelated building, sending chunks of metal and little white boy flying in all directions, it suddenly donned on him.

"Nigga, that's _Cairo's_ house! The dude that head-butted me!" He shot an angry look at Caesar as Caesar's podracer pulled into the lead.

Cairo, Huey's old friend from home, had moved into Woodcrest last year. They'd had a falling out over Cairo's new best friend. It had ended with Huey nursing a bloody nose.

Caesar rolled his eyes. "I knew you'd take it that way. Okay, _look_. I know what you're thinking. But think about it dude. His house is twice the size of Hugh Hefner's crib, and it's gonna be a huge party. This has been in the works since _last_ Halloween. There won't be enough space to move, it's going to be so packed. The chances of you bumping into him is next to zilch."

Huey glared at the screen, frustrated.

". . . besides," Caesar continued. "With that new hair, he wouldn't even recognize you. Heck, _I _barely recognize you! C'mon. It's going to be off the chain. Please say you'll go. _Please_?"

"Hell no."

Caesar looked downhearted. He knew he'd never go without Huey.

But as his pod widened its lead on Huey's pod, a devious smirk slithered across his face. His podracer screeched to a halt on the yellow desert terrain.

"What are you doing?"

How about this," Caesar turned to Huey, still smirking. "Blow past me. I'll give you a five-second head start before I start off again. If you win the race, I'll get you a salad at McDonalds. If _I_ win, we go to Cairo's party."

Huey stared at him, eyebrow upturned. "Dude, I'll be halfway to the finish line in five seconds. Sebulba's pod isn't even that fast. You can't do it."

"So it's a deal then? You win, I buy salad. I win, you go the party."

Huey considered the prospect for a moment. He had ten games of _Smash Bros._ he'd lost that he needed to account for. Honor was on the line. Lightning flashed in his large dark eyes.

Huey's hands coiled around the finlike controller. Caesar's did the same.

"It's four dollars and ninety-five cents. Have exact change." Huey blew past the idling orange pod racer, kicking up a storm of low-resolution dust as he went.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Huey began the long hike home. He had misplaced his kufi somewhere, and now the top of his head was becoming the final resting place for thousands of fallen snowflakes. The snow was at least an inch deeper now, and his boots sank far into the ground, creating a sucking noise as he pried them up with each step.

He was tired. And hungry.

And he had a party to get ready for.


	6. Chapter 6

**Locks  
Chapter 6**

Caesar had been right: the party was, indeed, jumping.

The windows were vibrating - in part because the building was stuffed to well beyond it's legal capacity and people were knocking against the glass, but for the most part due to the enormous speakers throbbing out an ear-splitting bassline. There was no actual music accompanying it as far as Huey could discern - just raw, unmitigated bass.

Drunk teens stumbled across the front lawn. A flaming roll of toilet paper went sailing overhead. Whitney Houston was passed out under a tree, her fingers still gripping a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels as people stepped over her to puke on the sidewalk.

Large strobe lights parked on the lawn illuminated the sky overhead. One of the strobe lights formed the Batman symbol on a cloud, for no other discernible reason than that it could.

The line of teens and tweens stretched all the way down the winding driveway, past the picket fence and well out of sight, wrapping around the block. The enormous bald bouncer at the front door was profiling prospective partygoers, turning away anyone whose shirts weren't name-brand or whose shoes didn't flow with the scene. One kid who had been in line for over an hour gave the bouncer lip when he was denied entrance. The bouncer punted him into the horizon.

_How the hell did Cairo orchestrate all this?_

But Huey had bigger things to worry about. Caesar being tangled in the topiary, for one.

Huey reached down into the bush's dark green void, feeling around for a hand. He found an ear.

"Ow!"

Huey sighed, thrusting his arm down into the enormous hedge and tugging Caesar up by the collar of his shirt. Caesar scowled, embarrassed at having to be rescued. He looked like a wet cat.

"Can you keep up? This was _your_ idea. I figured you had at least practiced being stealthy in your backyard or something. So far, this is a weak break-in."

"Oh _shut up_," came Caesar's reply as he tried to keep his balance on the leafy canopy. "And we ain't breaking in. We already paid. We're just avoiding the line."

"And... when exactly did we pay?"

"Nigga, we pay taxes. It's the same thing."

"_No_, we _don't_. And _no_, it isn't."

"Would you just shut the hell up and get down here?"

Huey jumped from the hedge, landing nimbly at Caesar's side. Caesar's outfit was covered in leaves and stained with dew. Huey, who had practically vaulted onto the bush, looked exactly as he did when he had left the house that evening.

_Speaking of which. . ._

Caesar noticed that Huey was still wearing the same stiff white turtleneck sweater, but had exchanged his old blue jeans for some black leather Kanye West nut-huggers and a pair of military-grade, highly polished combat boots. His field jacket had been traded off for a badass (if somewhat tight) electric-blue Matrix trench and his dreadlocks were pulled back behind a deep-red bandana. Caesar guessed that Huey must have raided his little brother's wardrobe. Riley always had something fashionable to wear.

_He smells nice._

Caesar shook his head vigorously. _No. Not tonight._

The back door was left unlocked. The maids laboring over party foods in the heated and noisy kitchen either didn't care that two nappy-headed Black children had broken in, or didn't know enough English to tell anybody. The boys squeezed their way through a long crowded hall, winding their way through the smoke and the noise until they got to the main ballroom where the party was in full swing.

Huey stared wide-eyed out over the endless pulsing blob of human flesh getting it's freak on over the dance floor. Caesar had been right again; you couldn't find Waldo in this crowd.

A Black Eyed Peas remix blared out of the wall-mounted speakers with the concussive force of a jet taking off. Metallic orange and black streamers dangled over the gyrating crowd, illuminated by the seizure-inducing techno lights. A five-foot disco ball spun overhead, reflecting the strobes and spotlights and casting brilliant color tessellations down over the partygoers. In the next instant, the blinking, strobing, revolving lights died and the room was dark. The plain white T's of the undulating legions became illuminated by blacklights, and the room was suddenly full of eerie purple phantoms. Everybody cheered.

The noise was so loud and the lights so bright, Huey couldn't hear himself think. In a way, it was a welcomed change.

Caesar grabbed his arm, cupping his hand over Huey's ear and shouting into the makeshift bullhorn at the top of his lungs. All Huey could hear was Fergie singing something raunchy and degrading to women. Huey pointed at his ear and shrugged.

Caesar pointed at himself and did the Robot, indicating that he was heading for the dance floor. Huey shooed him off. Flashing the peace sign, Michael Caesar disappeared behind a flotilla of half-dressed bitches and was gone.

Rolling his eyes, Huey pocketed his hands and slowly made his way towards a far corner where he figured he'd wallflower for the rest of the night. On his way, some white girl with pigtails clacked him in the temple with a glowstick she was twirling. Catching his glare, the girl only gave a spaced-out giggle and continued to dance.

No, Huey decided. This was definitely _not_ his scene.

He passed along a table covered in snacks. At the far end, someone had hollowed out a pumpkin and filled it with punch. Figuring that wallflowers needed to have something in their hand while they onlooked, Huey filled a Dixie cup and took a sip, reclining against a wall that stood a good ways from the main mass of people.

Huey thought he caught sight of Caesar a couple of times, but whoever it was disappeared back into the throng. The mix tape had flipped over to some blasty-ass gut bucket rock 'n roll. Interestingly, the bright lasers and strobes seemed to change color and direction in tandem with whatever track was being played. Whoever had done this had been a professional. Admiring the craftsmanship, Huey wondered if he'd ever be able to hear again.

He took another gulp of the punch. It was good. A little chalky though. Likely from sitting in the pumpkin, Huey wagered.

Holding his dixie cup aloft, Huey sighed wearily. He didn't know what was wrong with him.

It wasn't as if he didn't know _how_ to dance. . . he just _didn't_. He wanted to have fun. He wanted to occasionally let loose and get a little madcap every now and then. But. . . this is what his culture had made itself to be _all_ about. Frivolity. Glorified stupidity. An abject, insatiable hedonism that existed to the detriment of family and community, intellect and history. A culture of materialistic greed, spurred on by ethnic tension, mass-media marketing, and a disillusioned youth culture that, all together, worked actively to undo everything that his people once stood for. _That_ is what he was fighting against. All the clubbing, all the drugs. All the. . . fun.

He pushed back a long brown lock from his shoulder, whisking it behind him. It was getting oddly warm in the room.

But. . . come on. It wasn't that he thought that Black folks should _never_ party. It was just. . . some moderation was needed. But a little fun was okay _sometimes_. . . right?

Huey smiled softly to himself. Nobody was watching him, so he could. The bright lights that had hurt his eyes ten minutes before now seemed warm and inviting.

_I mean. . . even hard-working brothers need a break. What kind of tight-ass would I be if I didn't occasionally let loose? I spend so much time trying to set a good example. _Huey smacked his lips for no particular reason, delighting in the sensation. _I mean, don't I get a break or something?_

He rested his head against the wall, looking out over the crowd of kids having the time of their lives.

He wanted a glowstick.

Huey took an Irishmen's swig from his Dixie cup, tilting the thing back to polish off the last little orange drop. _This shit is AWESOME._

He found himself getting indignant. He hated himself for always being the good one. Always being the example. The hero.

"Man. . . _fuck that shit_," he said to no one in particular, his words running together ever so slightly. "I deserve a goddamn break from my own goddamn Blackness. I deserve to act like a nigga on occasion."

The crowd seemed to slow down dramatically, now more closely resembling a high-resolution orgy than a dance party. The lights seemed to tangle in upon themselves, refracting from the 40-foot disco ball into a splendid display of all the spectral colors of the magnificence of the universe. Little flecks of polarized purple dust fluttered across Huey's vision.

"Ya'll know what?" Huey slurred loudly, letting his blue Neo jacket fall to the ground. He teetered attempting to stomp his foot. "_Fuck_ my Blackness."

Huey sluggishly made his way towards the welcoming arms of all the pretty ghost children. Tugging off his bandanna and letting it drop to the floor, Huey gave his hair a violent shake, allowing the loosed dreads to fall where they may.

He bumped into that same white bitch that had conked him with the glowsticks earlier. He extended his foot, tripping her and snatching her glowstick in one swift motion before she hit the ground.

Fuck his Blackness, Huey had decided. Tonight was _his_ night.

Just him, these kids, this happenin' music. . .

. . .and the flying spaghetti monster emerging from that inter-dimensional portal in the ceiling apparently only he could see.

* * *

Author's Note: I've been re-tooling this story for the past couple of months now. It's been a good exercise in self editing I think. Thanks to everyone who's left such positive reviews.

Any spelling or grammar errors, PM me. R&R if the spirit moves you.


	7. Chapter 7

**Locks  
Chapter 7**

It was twenty minutes later and Caesar had already scored four phone numbers. These were high-quality phone numbers too. _Good numbers._ The kinds with push-up bras and low-rider jeans.

This was easily the hottest party on earth right now. Diddy didn't throw these kinds of parties. Still. . . he felt kind of bad for ditching Huey. The whole reason he had come was because Caesar had asked him. And now, he didn't even know where Huey had gotten off to.

It wasn't that he didn't want to be here with Huey. That wasn't it at all.

It's just. . . he didn't know what to _do_ with Huey. That boy read too damn much. He knew how to MacGyver a frag grenade out of stuff you could get at Bed Bath & Beyond. And that's not hyperbole because Caesar had _seen the schematic for it on the boy's desktop,_ and then had to spend the next hour of his life tap dancing around asking Huey if everything was okay. Turns out, everything was fine and researching how to make things explode was just one of Huey's hobbies.

The more he thought about it, Caesar realized he hadn't even seen Huey smile except for, like, _three times_ in their entire friendship. He knew he wanted to be there with Huey. _Specifically _Huey. But. . . it's a little hard to enjoy a dance with another guy.

_Hell_, Caesar thought to himself. _Does Huey even dance?_

Suddenly, somebody elbowed him squarely in his kidney. Somebody dancing entirely too close. Caesar whirled around.

_Alright. Apparently he DOES dance._

Wide-eyed, Caesar stared as Huey Freeman popped it and locked it. He was dirty dancing, sandwiched between two older boys.

Caesar froze on the dance floor, nearly pissing himself. Mostly because it was a huge shock. Partially because it was hot as hell.

Shaking himself from his stupor, Caesar latched onto Huey's sweater sleeve mid-flail, tugging the man-on-perceived girl-on-man sandwich closed minus its 'girl' middle. It took a few seconds before the boys realized they were missing their hot chick and were actually dancing with each other. They both gave a loud squeal and instantaneously put several feet between themselves.

"Huey, what the _hell_ are you doing?" Caesar shouted in the boy's ear

Huey's eyes were bleary and wide, a goofy smile washed across his face. He shrugged, sending dreadlocks tumbling off his thin shoulders.

Caesar gave Huey a look over. He was missing his jacket. Someone had poured Coke or something all over one side of his sweater. Several of his braids had fallen over his face but he didn't seem to notice. His eyes were wide and his pupils dilated.

Most interestingly of all, Huey's leather pants were hiked down slightly. Not hanging-off-the-ass style but. . . low-rider.

Huey Freeman had tried to mimic a high-school girl's fashion staple.

"Huey, what the f-" Caesar noticed a crumpled red Dixie cup balled up in Huey's hand. His eyes went wide.

The punch. Caesar's mouth stood agape. It all made sense now.

"_Nigga, you don't drink from the punchbowl at a goddamn rave!_" Caesar shouted into Huey's ear. Huey responded by grabbing onto Caesar's hand, trying to get the smaller boy to dance with him.

Caesar swallowed. This was officially some deep shit.

Holding Huey's arm tight, Caesar glanced around. Nobody was really looking at them, but at the far end of the room a kid with a Wesley Snipes 'Blade' haircut and Oakley shades was lounging on a couch facing their general direction, talking to someone next to him. Cairo. Fuck.

Caesar reached up and felt Huey's forehead. Scalding hot. LSD or PCP. . . someone had spiked the bowl.

Caesar kept a firm grip on Huey's arm; the older boy was trying to pull away, his head bobbing lazily. Caesar's mind was racing at a million miles an hour. Huey was going to die if they didn't hurry, but if they caused a scene. . .

Suddenly, the green laser lights dimmed down. The disco ball swirled slower. . . the track had gone from a Paramore song to. . .

_Oh god_. Caesar gulped, trying not to hear what he knew he was hearing. Slow base, heavy but melodic drums, a disembodied voice laying the melody. . .

Slow dance.

Couples were bunching together. The lights were dimmed. They were stranded in the dead center of the ballroom floor.

And Huey Freeman. . . social terrorist and Left-wing revolutionary. . . learned anarchist and future hero to millions. . .

. . . was high as a kite.

* * *

Author's Note: God DAMN how I want to complete this motherf***ing story. It's a re-write from, like, _three years ago_, and I've just been retooling it for the past year. The good thing is that I already have all the chapters. The bad thing is I have to go back through and correct my writing style from three years ago.

Any spelling/grammar errors, pretty please let Deiter know. Theenkz.


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: BEFORE YOU READ THIS CHAPTER, you have homework to do. Go to YouTube, type in "Sade - By Your Side" and listen to that song. It's very pretty, and I couldn't think of anything I wanted Huey and Caesar to slow dance to more.

* * *

**Locks  
Chapter 8**

_/ You think I'd leave your side, baby. . . You know me better than that. /_

The music was washing over Huey like a tidal wave.

It was slamming into him, drowning him in life and happiness and satisfaction, saturating his senses with all the splendor and majesty of the universe. Each moment seemed grander than the one before it; each light and noise and sensation seemed more frighteningly vibrant and complete than the last.

_/ Think I'd leave you down when you're down on your knees. I won't do that. /_

This was heaven. Pure and simple.

All around him, Huey Freeman could see the glowing embers of countless souls mingling in the new beat. It was nothing short of romantic. Everybody had somebody.

_/ Oh. . . when you're cold. . . I'll be there. . .by your side. . . /_

Huey grinned weakly into the starched collar he was nestled against. Even _he _had somebody, apparently. And that was a nice feeling.

Whoever it was had been kind enough to let Huey nuzzle against their neck, and was cradling him like a baby. Which was good, because Huey was starting to feel a little light-headed.

Huey smirked into the shirt collar, an emotional tear trailing down his cheek and onto the unfamiliar shoulder, staining the fabric a darker shade of itself.

He couldn't remember what he had always been angry over. . . what he had been so uptight about, what he had been so passionate about. All the signs and demonstrations and bitterness, for what? He had never been happier than he was right now.

As they rocked back and forth to the rhythm, Huey absentmindedly mouthed the lyrics, his lips brushing against soft skin of whomever it was that was holding him.

The person had goosebumps now. A lot of 'em.

Huey was vaguely aware of a change in atmosphere. The many bright dancing lights had been replaced by a single glaring white halogen. His eyes stung with the adjustment.

_/ . . .if only. . . you could see into me. . . /_

The music was further away now. Whoever Huey had been dancing with had pried him off, gently easing him down onto the floor. Huey's head rested against something hard, white, and cold. His eyes were a little too blurry to make out what it was.

Huey winced as the sound of water jetting from a faucet rang in his ears. It was as if a mighty waterfall had opened up a few feet from his head.

"Huey. . . I don't know if you can understand me. . . but hang in there, okay? We're gonna get you help."

There was a brief pause.

"I use 'we' in a broad sense of the word. By 'we' I mean 'me'."

Suddenly, Huey felt a tug. He found himself being hoisted up by the shoulder towards the glaring halogen lights above. His foot touched something wet and cold, and he soon felt his entire body being lowered gingerly into cool waters.

He shuddered slightly. It felt like little icy pinpricks on his skin.

The bulb burned brightly overhead. Huey's head slipped below the waters briefly, only to be pulled up quickly by a hand cradling his neck.

"Woah there Esé! I got you."

A black silhouette, framed in a bright halo by the overhead light, bared down on him. Huey couldn't make out the face. . . it was kind of like watching an eclipse.

Huey extended a hand tentatively, stroking the silhouette's shoulder. And there it was. The hard shirt collar.

Huey grinned happily. His date was giving him a bath.


End file.
